


Arthur's Bane

by Unloyal_Olio



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Heroes, M/M, Magical training, Merlin needs to find his magical bamf again, Mordred thinks Merlin's magic is beauteous, Self-Discovery, Voyeurism, bamf!mordred, initial resentment, magical healing, potionmaking, telepathic!Mordred, unrequited Arthur/Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Only think of a Camelot with Emrys standing in robes beside a high king. Wisdom and power and justice and a terrible amount of sarcasm—Albion will have to bow and unite. The only alternative is a stupendous amount of whinging.”</p><p>Merlin is smiling at him. “I don’t see myself the way that you do.”</p><p>“Like I said, you’ve been a servant too long, friend.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is Mordred's POV, but it sort of follows canon more or less until THIS WEEK'S EPISODE (5.9, I think)--which I have not seen. (Tho I've [tumblr'd](http://unloyal-olio.tumblr.com/) and adkjf@ldkfjdHADA...!!!)
> 
> Not brit picked. (But if you'd like to be helpful, feel free.)

Often Mordred wonders if magic is fading from the world, if it's being moulted off like winter skin, if it is nothing more than the dreams of a hibernation that will never find spring. But it wasn't always so. As a child in the druid camps, the ancient magic still beat strong. At evening fall, Mordred’s kinsmen called upon it, singing it from the trees and earth, until the camp smelled of blood and lye. The energy coated their spells like honey so when he awoke at dawn the air was rich with rose dew and toadstool. Nevertheless, the first time Mordred saw Emrys— _Merlin_ —his magic was so unlike Mordred’s druid kinsmen. It was unlike anything or anyone Mordred had ever seen. 

For Mordred has a talent for seeing the magical energies—it’s not just that he dreams at night like a seer—he sees dreamscapes _wind, air, water, dust_ in the daylight as well. Thus, when Mordred looked at Merlin for the first time, he knew him at once for whom and what he was: _Emrys_. 

Emrys, the immortal creature. To be next to Emrys is to feel legless like a snake before a dragon spreading its wings. Emrys’s magic is both loud and beautiful. Mayhap, like the ocean or the unobstructed night sky—the sort of vast power that is elegant in its details and when contemplated on the whole, terrifying enough to inspire religion.

So that's why it's shocking—worse, _maddening_ —when Mordred encounters Emrys on the Northern Plains. Mordred himself is a man now with the shoulders to fill the furs he wears. On the slopes around them, Ismere's Yule is all crystal cream until you slip your fingers into the stinging white crystals. Emrys is not dressed for its wretchedness. He is as frozen as Camelot’s king at his side. And so chapped. Emrys’s skin, his lips, his magic. It's blistered and split.

Mordred has not lost control of his magic in a year. Not since—

Yet seeing Emrys like this, seeing this dragon begging at the heels of a horse—Mordred feels the anger again, the growl rising in the back of his mind. The outrage is building behind his eyes.

He wants to let it go.

He does not. Instead, he watches, searches for edges, and discerns. When both Merlin’s eyes and magic flit fearfully to Arthur—Mordred begins to see the whole picture. After all, loneliness is a weakness of every man. Love tames even dragons.

“I understand…” He tells Merlin when they are alone.

He half wishes he didn’t.

Later, as Merlin and Arthur escape Ragnor and his men, Mordred watches them slash, leap, and flee. It's puzzling. If Emrys had faced them head on, there would be no contest against such power. Mordred thinks he shouldn’t still be seeing snow. For where are the boiled edges of puddles? He looks at the ravine that divides them. Why isn’t Mordred buried at the bottom? Why does he walk free with strong legs when Emrys so clearly wished him dead?

Because… that magic. That _magic_. A half mile away and tumbling down a slope with Arthur—Mordred can still sense it. It thrums. It begs. It wants.

Why does it not have?

For the first time in a year, Merlin unleashes the pain between his ears. The scream is silent, and yet around him, the snow twists in streams.

 

“I’m watching you,” Merlin warns.

It’s not an idle threat. As Mordred practices the sword with the other knights, Merlin is the wolf scrutinizing the fox too close to its den. When Mordred’s halberd crashes into Gwaine’s mace, Merlin’s magic is writhing. Hind legs tensed. So ready to bare its fangs and rip.

Let it go, Mordred thinks with a touch of bitterness. Let it fly. Coming to Camelot has been no easy task for him. He found his way to Morgana’s old room the day before yesterday. Pushing aside dusty silk curtains, he found the closet in which he had hidden—in which he’d felt the shock of his father’s death. But he has a mission. Emrys. More than a mission, it’s a duty. For Mordred intends to more than stir the pot. He intends to ladle stew over his tongue and smack his gums at the pleasure of it. He’s going to set Merlin’s magic loose like an arrow.

He’s going to explain it all to Merlin. He just needs time. The right moment. Yet Merlin’s apprehension of him is so resolute—even stronger than Mordred expected. Yet it shouldn’t be so surprising. After all, years ago, the last words Mordred had said to him were: I shall never forgive this, Emrys. I shall never forget.

And no, Mordred hasn’t forgotten. For years, he replayed every last interaction he’d had with Emrys. To be so saved then so betrayed. He boiled over the moment when Camelot’s knights had descended upon him in Alvarr’s camp, and Emrys had just stood there—so full of magic and yet standing on the side of those who would burn them both for it. Mordred had screamed then. He’d fought back with magic because he had no other means. Because Mordred had never had a choice. It was Uther who chose to kill his father. It was Alvarr who used him as bait to lure in Morgana. There has been so little in his own history that Mordred has chosen.

It was later when he met Charles that he understood the power of choice. The meaning of bindings. And then later still when he realized their price. Mordred is unsure as to whether or not Merlin has really learned that. Perhaps, he’s been too afraid. Or never been forced. Mordred can forgive him for that. He had to forgive himself a year ago. What he cannot forgive Emrys for is the magic. Merlin’s magic is so suppressed; it hurts Mordred just looking at it. It begs to be unfettered.

Mordred waits until he finds Merlin alone. The basket of mending Merlin is carrying is heaped high as he trudges down the steps. Mordred stands at the landing at the bottom. Whatever is going on in Merlin’s head, it must be considerably involved, because he’s two steps from ploughing away when Mordred prods the silence: _Going to see the tailor?_

Merlin freezes. _No, I’m not. Move._

At the topic of the basket, there’s an indigo pair of breeches with a ripped out hem. Mordred concentrates. The finer workings of telekinesis are not his forte, so it takes longer than it should for the magic to settle over the delicate threads and coax them back to order.

“Stop it. Someone will see.”

Mordred shakes his head. _No one around. No one but you and me. Reach with your thoughts, and you’ll know the closest soul is the guard puffing on his pipe by the east window._

“Why are you doing this?”

_I want to know why you’ve stopped using your magic. You never use it even when it’s safe to. That’s not natural. That’s not who you are. Your magic is beautiful. It’s the amazing thing I’ve ever seen._

Merlin’s jaw is set as he peers away. “We’re in _Camelot_. And what do you care?”

“Your powers are weakening, like an arm kept in the splint overly long.”

Merlin’s eyes flash and then the clothes twist in the air above them. It’s a funnel of soot on wool and spilled tea and lavender soap scent from the washers, but it’s also prickling with gold. 

It makes Mordred’s heart leap. Air and earth and a touch of water swirl together like a giant urn above them. Hah! Mending, what mending? Mordred laughs as the seams are bound up and holes are weaved back together.

Yet Merlin sees none of the joy in it. “Now I’m going to have to make up some stupid story—“

“That was beautiful. Extraordinary.” Mordred’s own voice sounds drugged, but oh divinity, the air tastes like sugar on the tip of his tongue. “What you can do—what you are—it is nothing but a blessing.”

“I’ll tell you what it is.” Merlin slams the basket down on the floor, stepping so close that his red neck tie flutters out, touching the edge of Mordred’s throat. Merlin’s eyes are only bloodshot now. Not glorious gold. “It’s dangerous.”

Mordred leans forward, even closer. He can feel Merlin’s breath on his cheek. “For us. Or for them?”

“To those that are bound to us.” Merlin’s eyes flash.

Mordred smiles at having his own words thrown back in his face. “Exactly.” He gathers up Merlin’s basket. “And I’ll handle this. The tailor is down the hall? Third door on the left?”

“What are you going to do?” Merlin looks both wary and genuinely stumped.

Does Emrys really not know? “Come, come, ye mighty warlock. You might learn something.”

Or not. After Mordred slips the fake memory into the tailor’s mind, Merlin throws a big stomping fit. _You can’t manipulate people like that!_ He sends the unspoken yell bashing against the back of Mordred’s senses.

Grabbing the bridge of his nose, Mordred sighs. _I didn’t hurt him. And so what if I did it with magic instead of lies? Both are horrible. Both are necessary. How would you have done it differently?_

_I wouldn’t have used magic._

_As I said, you lie too much. Especially to yourself._

This is going to take time.

 

Merlin stops watching him in the yard. It doesn’t affect Mordred much either way, because he really does have his hands full at keeping up with training. Nevertheless, he’s pleased with his own improvement. Much of it has to do with Arthur, who is as patient and dogged as any master of the sword that Mordred has met. It’s so easy to like the king, especially when the king likes him. What’s more is that Arthur is so good hearted, so earnest in his adoration of his men—and most especially of Merlin—that Mordred wonders if magic’s fate is so hopeless in Camelot.

And yet Arthur doesn’t know about Merlin’s magic.

If Emrys confessed, would Arthur bend? Or would the lie break him? Arthur isn’t afraid of power, but he’s terribly cautious with whom he chooses to trust. Merlin is his manservant. Possibly, Mordred considers, the king’s bedfellow. It wouldn’t be out of fear that Arthur would reject Merlin. It would be for faithlessness.

Lies, Emrys. Your lies.

 

From time to time when Mordred slips—it’s always because of some damn man. Back when his haunts included country villages and bandit camps, it was only on the rare occasion that someone caught his eye, but here in Camelot, he’s amid _knights_ , men who train daily and are of prime breeding. It would be nigh impossible for anyone of Mordred’s inclinations not to trip into wishful thinking. And then the temptation is too strong: he has to _know_. Do they think thusly for him as well? He never searches deep into their minds; it’s always just a quick survey in a moment of weakness.

Take as an instance, the time when Gwaine (temptation walking, truly) has one hand sliding up the barmaid’s thigh all the while that he’s smiling at Mordred, a smile with white teeth brightened by a gruff beard and a jaw line so sharp you could—

When Mordred peaks, it’s a disappointment. There are no lust-driven thoughts directed at Mordred’s person. Rather, Gwaine is wondering if Lucky-Lucy-what’s-her-face is going to let him in between her thighs after the tavern doors close. (The last three times, Lucy has ducked and ran at the last second—even after Gwaine had done her proper.) None of these images are what Mordred particularly wants to see. Depressing.

One by one, he ends up sorting through the other knights. Leon has a wife he’s (happily) ruled by. Sir Elyan only recently broke up with a Lady—she liked his title oh so very much and how he was the king’s brother in law, but the fine Lady was unimpressed at his lack of lands and funds. (She had quite the wardrobe in mind for her future.) Ah, but then Mordred finally peeks into Percival’s mind.

The strapping knight is the dangerous type. Mordred normally avoids them. They’re the ones that like boys with hips like young girls and hate themselves for realizing the comparison. Notably, Percival used to look at Merlin. It was a bit of an obsession for a year or so. Merlin’s mouth, especially. The way he used to razz Arthur on all accounts, especially about his weight—about his superiority. How it used to make Percival laugh—and to want.

Yet now, Mordred feels Percival’s thoughts turn his way. As they cross swords on the field green, Percival is all careful strength with him. Better yet, when Mordred bests him, using his speed and smaller size to get behind the larger knight, and touch the sword to the stem of his spine—Percival and the rest of the knight have a rip roaring laugh over it. It’s not just temptation then. Mordred begins to feel the growing affection.

He had told himself that he never would—again—with a mere human, and yet when they’re changing out of their gear after melee, Mordred asks Percival, “Help me with this strap, would you?”

After he helps Percival in turn, Mordred asks about a scar. Then, “How is it that you have such strong calluses? Let me see.” The ones growing across Mordred’s palms are nothing compared to the seasoned patches across Percival’s, yet he demands a comparison anyway.

“Yours are growing. Almost.” Percival allows him, and his thumbs press into the age lines on Mordred’s hand.

“It’s intimidating. I feel like mine will always be soft,” Mordred says.

Percival grips his hand. He’s staring at Mordred’s mouth, wanting to taste it.

Mordred waits.

Percival drops his hands and starts in on a story about when he was younger and dropped a sword on his boot.

Mordred knows better than to force it.

 

The next time he and Merlin are alone—really alone—it’s because Merlin is shaping rocks into a cairn over Osgar’s grave.

“Sorcerers are not permitted to have marked graves.” Mordred’s tone holds no accusation. He does from time to time wonder about his own father. If anyone could even point him to the proper field where his ashes were swept—except, that’s a question for another day. Right now, he likes this side of the Emrys. The sentimental rebel.

When Merlin gets blustery and tells him _One day we will have freedom again_ , Mordred wants to believe him. After all, the Disir sent Osgar as their messenger-priest to push the issue. Arthur is being judged because there’s hope that by judging him, some justice might be wrought. They could be free.

Except that Merlin buries his words with the stones over Osgar’s corpse. They speak of it no more.

 

Later, Arthur quests to find the Disir. The Runemark and the message left by Osgar are too morally irksome for Camelot’s good-hearted king to ignore. It’s Mordred’s first real mission, so it’s with more than a little energy and foolhardy pride that he rides as a knight through the White Mountains. The pleasure fades, though, when they enter the Disir’s grotto. Then, both Merlin and Mordred are shaking from the energy—the biting magic of the Triple Goddess. Merlin tells Arthur it feels “sacred,” but Mordred would say it feels like a warning. As they close in on the priestesses, Mordred’s own sword stays sheathed; his head, bowed.

Instinctual or no, playing the peaceful druid while dressed in a knight’s mantle is not the wisest move, not by any stretch of the imagination. For when the Disir’s anger erupts, Mordred is near paralyzed by the power of it. Across the dark pool, he sees the priestess’s eye flash white, and when he, as a child of magic, moves to protect Arthur—the denigrator—the anger becomes crackling rage. Behind him, Emrys is trying to draw the strings to him—but Emrys’s magic is flaccid. Mordred stands alone when the priestess’s staff pierces him.

And then his heart is pounding too hard. Blood spills into his fingers. Arthur is repeating his name with each beat, and when Mordred looks up, there’s Emrys. Emrys, whose gaze is locked on Arthur, and Emrys, who when he looks at Mordred, is so dead cold.

 _Build me a cairn too,_ Mordred jokes. That is, before the thoughts, and even his magic, grow too thin to keep him conscious.

 

He awakes with a burst of sun. The room is not his own. Bent over glass bottles, Gaius is muttering something about _youth and destiny, worst of all combinations_ …

“I’m in the infirmary?” Mordred asks.

Gaius starts. In fact, the bottle in his hand cracks against the table ledge and black sand starts pouring out the bottom. It’s dried mandrake root, and the colour is so completely the opposite of the tendrils that are fading from the room. Deep, ancient magic, Mordred thinks. The Disir have spared him, but for what end? What has come to pass while his mind drowned in the nothingness of such near-death?

Meanwhile, Gaius is speaking. It takes a moment for Mordred’s ears to arrange meaning from the sounds.

“…thought you were on death’s edge.” Gaius squats down before him, pulling at his bottom eye lids one at a time.

“I suppose I was,” Mordred says. “But I feel good as new now.”

“Arthur and Merlin went to the Disir—they were determined to save you.”

Oh. Mordred doesn’t feel like that makes sense at all. Well, not from Merlin anyway. Arthur going is more understandable… “Whatever they did, it must have worked.”

Gaius nods but the motion is too quick. The physician is unsettled. “Lie back. I’m going to fetch you some water. No moving until I’m certain you’re settled.”

 

Arthur greets Mordred with a holler and such shocked delight that Mordred is fooled for a time. The other knights are clapping him on the back, and cheers are sent up. It takes Mordred the better part of an hour to realize that he hasn’t seen Merlin.

So that’s how it is.

Yet Mordred is too damn happy to figure out what exactly happened. He could check Arthur’s mind, but he loves him too much at the moment. That Arthur was so painfully relieved to see him alive and well means a great deal.

He’s en route to track down Merlin—to demand some information when he’s waylaid by Percival.

“I stopped to check on you—while you were sick.”

“That was considerate.” Mordred smiles at him. Lord, he’s huge like an oak—and bloody gorgeous. Truly, a man that deserved to be climbed like a damn tree.

If Percival reads anything into Mordred’s smile, he doesn’t show it. “We thought you were dead.”

“Not dead. I’m feeling so very much alive—actually,” Mordred can’t bite his own tongue to save his life, “would you mind getting a drink with later at the tavern? A small celebration?”

“Gwaine’s down there now. We could join him—try to slow him a little.”

“Like trying to pin an ass by its tail.” Mordred laughs. “I’m not babysitting Gwaine. Rather, I think I’m going to drink my own weight in mead. You just watch.”

Percival glances up and down Mordred’s frame and snorts. “Not that difficult.”

“Just because you are ox-sized…” Mordred complains but then he’s already pulling Percival toward the stair that leads out of the keep.

 

The Knights of Camelot are not as stiff as those of other realms. It’s not like what you would find in a tavern in Lot’s kingdom where it would m’Lord this, m’Lord that. No, in Camelot—they’re overly used to the likes of Gwaine. At the moment, Gwaine is singing.

“I sold my heart to a pret-teh lass, but she wouldn’t eeeeee-ven fill my glass.”

In the background a fiddle is going, just not remotely in tune with Gwaine’s attempts at lyricism.

The barmaid points irritably at Gwaine’s mug. “Y’idiot, it’s still nearly to the brim.”

“Wait.” Gwaine holds up a finger, before lifting the mug. There’s an amber slosh, but Gwaine catches most of it on his tongue—only to spit it out when he sees Mordred and Percival. “My boys!” he exclaims, before turning back to the barmaid. “We’ll need another for this one—he almost _died_ today.”

“Oh, Lord he’s drunk already.” Percival is groaning.

But Mordred happily sits down next to Gwaine, swiping his mug. As he drinks it, Gwaine looks on approvingly, and at the end, when Mordred throws a leg over the bench, rasping from the burning in his throat, both Gwaine and Percival have a good laugh.

Mordred sets about drinking his weight—as he told Percival—with even greater alacrity because the proclamations that Gwaine keeps making are growing more ridiculous by the hour. At one point, Gwaine announces to the bar. “This here fellow just completed his virgin quest as a knight of Camelot, and in doing such, managed to take a staff for the king. Ain’t there a lass here who would help him with own?”

This leads any number of brazen barmaids to flirt horribly with him, so that if Mordred’s pale skin weren’t already red from the ale, he’d be blushing from the impropriety.

Gwaine goads him when he backs away from Lucy, because um, her breasts are lovely when they’re _nowhere near Mordred’s face_. “Mordy,” Gwaine rumbles. “You been with a girl before?”

“‘m not a virgin,” he says, and he slides down the bench, trying to avoid Lucy’s hands. 

Gwaine is trying to get more out of Mordred when Lucy gives up on massaging Mordred’s shoulders and goes and plonks her skirts on Gwaine’s lap. Mordred takes the opportunity to edge closer to Percival who is quiet and smiling in the back corner.

“I find barmaids terrifying,” Mordred whispers, loud enough for Percival to hear.

“Fine ladies of the court more your type?”

Mordred runs his finger along the edge of his mug. “Not really.”

“Nice village girl? Someone to bring home to your mother.”

“My mother is long dead.” With his mother, there’s no pain. Mordred can’t even remember her face. It’s different for his father, naturally.

“Mine is alive and a terror.” Percival is bent forward with his chin resting on his knuckles. 

“Upset you haven’t brought home a lady?”

Percival’s mouth twists as he looks Mordred in the eyes. “Upset that she doesn’t have a dozen grandchildren is more like.” 

“Ah,” Mordred says. He takes another sip from his mug.

Percival watches him do it, and it’s not fair—but he peaks and oh. Oh. Um, well, fuck. Kissing is the least of what Percival wants to do to him.

Mordred jerks a little and has to make an excuse. “Splinter on the bench.” He laughs, because in Percival’s mind there’s an image of Mordred lying white as the sweat-stained sheet beneath his chin, and Percival is thinking he’s beautiful. Eyes like rain puddles. So tall and slender. Muscled like a man but still pretty with a boy’s eyes, mouth. And Percival is wondering how he’s always the coward in his own conquests. He might be brute force and a mantle for gallantry, but his own heart is so timid.

Mordred grabs his hand beneath the table. Percival startles, but he doesn’t look away as Mordred says, “I need to go out back. My bladder is ready to burst and I’m too drunk to walk in straight line. Help me?”

“Yet you speak in such perfect sentences,” Percival teases, but his eyes are intense, hopeful as he offers Mordred his arm so he can stand.

They make it into the alley before Percival’s hand is sliding down his back. It catches on his belt, then grabs and holds. Mordred is already holding onto Percival’s arms for support, but now he leans closer into him. Percival has a linen pocket gapping on the left side of his chest. Mordred slides two fingers into it as he twists into the larger knight’s frame.

“Mordred,” Percival gasps, but he isn’t moving. He isn’t doing anything.

Mordred steps them backwards until his own back is up against the stone wall of the tavern. Percival’s thought are a mess, both predator and prey. Both worrying about someone seeing and of losing this chance. “Don’t think about anything but this,” Mordred says, and he draws Percival’s’ mouth to his own. 

The taste is the easy swill of mead, and even if the stones are slick and cold from the dewy night, Mordred can slide his hands under the bottom of Percival’s shirt. The skin is hot, thick ropes of muscle with soft swirls of hair that nestle around his fingers. Mordred’s never kissed anyone this much older than him, much less so much larger. And yet, when Percival hefts him up against the wall, driving them closer—it’s so good. There’s so much raw strength, and while the kissing might be tentative, Percival knows his own body: he’s the ultimate master among the knights at hand-to-hand, and right now, Mordred is beginning to understand how and why.

“Oh, yes, oh thank the—” Mordred scratches their stubble together, squeezes the glorious hocks that are Percival’s shoulders, and nearly comes undone himself when Percival makes a deep, low throttle of groan that seems to shiver from his chest to Mordred’s, before ricocheting back again.

Percival has never done this with another man before. Mordred knows. Percival has engaged in careful kissing with ladies of the court, the sort of awkward fumbling that keeps the gossip off one’s head, but Percival has never been rough—never been like this. 

For Mordred has never learned to be gentle or careful. In his lovemaking, he has only ever known desperation, and so that’s how he draws Percival to him. He whispers, “Thought about this since I saw you.”

And Percival groans at his words but doesn’t stop rocking them, grinding the damn log in his pants hard into Mordred’s thigh. 

With one hand, Mordred’s fingers search out leverage on the stones, he needs Percival to aim a little higher. “Up. Right. Up a bit more. Yeah,” he breathes. “There.”

“It’s good?” Percival asks even as he buries his face into the crook of Mordred’s neck, even as he grinds harder. Lifts Mordred like he weighs nothing.

“So—so good. Perfect,” Mordred says, his hips a mess of movement, and God, his nails must be cutting skin but he has one hand looped about Percival’s neck—holding on for dear life—and the other braced against the stone, keeping the thrusts from being too hard.

“Going to...” Percival begins, just as his jaw open with a hoarse breath.

Lost to his stupor, Percival is smashing him, jerking his hips into Mordred’s. He’s about to come—

Mordred hears the mind racing toward them. For a split second, Mordred freezes, even as Percival tenses and releases against him.

And then Mordred is irate—because Merlin draws ever closer—even though he should be able to sense what’s going on here. Well, fine. Let him come. Let him see. Mordred just doesn’t fucking care. 

Percival is panting, pressing kisses under Mordred’s jaw. He’s relieved, relaxed. So happy. Merlin is not going to take that away.

“Can you finish me with your hand?” Mordred asks Percival.

Percival nods, and then there’s the rapid yanking of drawstrings. Mordred’s breeches are pretty easy access, but Percival’s thick knobby knuckles are a bit sticky with sweat as they slide in, pinching at the head then climbing down his shaft more like it’s a ladder and less a cock.

When Percival starts pulling him, though, it’s wonderful. So wonderful he doesn’t even give a fuck that Merlin is on the rooftop across from them, watching.

 _Enjoying the show?_ Mordred asks.

 _You tricked him._ The reply from Mordred is all snarl.

 _It’s called two men who fancy the pants off each other. Go the fuck away._

Percival tips his chin up, kisses him even as he pulls him to a perfect rhythm, and then Mordred hates Merlin a little for seeing this. For knowing Mordred’s weaknesses.

“You’re so...” Percival is trying to say. He’s thinking beautiful—pretty—lovely—but he doesn’t want to offend Mordred, because he likes that Mordred is a knight as well. That he manages to be impossibly delicate and strong.

Mordred wants to tell Percival unspeakable things too. It’s dark and it’s their first time, and yet Merlin is watching and Mordred is telling himself that he doesn’t care. Merlin can lie, but Mordred won’t, so he confesses, “I’ve thought about your cock—when I saw you in the bath. It’s a beast. I thought it would hurt. But I almost want it to hurt. I want to know what it feels like to have something that big inside of me. I want you inside of me.”

Percival lets out a groan that is too loud for the alley, but he also drops to his knees on the gravel. His buries his nose right into the dark nest around Mordred’s base then he pulls back. His lips latch onto the tip and he sucks Mordred in.

The shock of it makes Mordred crackle with magic. It’s both wonderful and terrifying. Lord, no matter what he has to keep his eyes closed. 

He’s on the brink. Percival’s mouth is huge and hot, and his tongue is a fucking broadsword when it comes to this purpose, so Mordred just has to lean back against the wall—grip the stones—grind his teeth—and hiss out his release.

When he comes, it’s sheer bliss, the world is all gold suns and fresh embers despite the frost of his breath and the numbness of his fingers in the frigid night.

It’s only when he’s sliding down the stones and licking his own grime off of Percival’s mouth that he feels the second pop of magic. The loud crack from the opposite roof.

Percival freezes, but Mordred is rolling his eyes.

_Merlin, did your mother not teach you to respect the privacy of others?_

Merlin doesn’t answer.

“Let’s do that again,” Mordred says to Percival. “This time in a bed.” _And away from prying eyes,_ he soundlessly adds, before pulling Percival along.

 

 _Yes, Merlin?_ Mordred is sitting cross legged on his cot in the barracks. It’s midday and he’s got a slab of cold stew meat over his bruised eye. At practice today, he’d gotten clobbered, enough to be sporting a fair shiner for the rest of the week. It’s given him a bit of a headache.

“What are you doing with Percival?” Merlin does indignation better than anyone. By the cross slash of his mouth, you’d think he was the high priest accusing Mordred of sacrilege. Funnily, he could be, and yet he is not.

“And just why are you curious? Looking for tips? Didn’t get enough of an eyeful last night?” Mordred’s head is pounding too hard at the moment for him to patiently put up with Merlin’s less than kind assumptions casting of aspersions on his character.

“No.” Merlin crosses his arms. “I want to know if you’ve been… meddling with his mind.”

“I have not. Why? You think Percival is too pretty for the likes of me?” Mordred pulls the meat up his cheek so the bone is off the sore spot. He’s glad the day is cool. It makes it less likely that the meat will spoil and stink.

“You could be lying.” And yet Mordred can hear the doubt in the accusation.

“I am not lying. It’s not _my_ style.”

Merlin’s silent fury is magically loud. The air is snapping and popping around them.

 _It’s almost like watching the ocean, what with the waves of gold and fairy lights…_ Mordred traces one of the patterns in the air with his finger. It actually alleviates the pain in his head somewhat.

Merlin’s eyes are watching Mordred’s finger yet he straightens. “I came here to talk about Percival.”

“Percival whom I like—and who is frankly none of your business—let’s talk about Morgana instead. Her power is growing. Yours is weakening. You have studied basic arithmetic?”

“Maybe I’m more worried about you.”

“Which is why I question your judgment. You’ve been a serving boy too long—you only do what you’re told. You only use your magic when someone’s live is at stake—well, your own or Arthur’s, I suppose.” 

That Merlin did nothing to stop the staff from piercing Mordred goes unspoken.

When Merlin finally speaks, his tone is defensive. “Magic is dangerous. We might be born with it, but that doesn’t mean we should be reckless with it.”

“ _Not_ what I said. Magic is part of who we are and we should use it as using it is natural to us. I’m not even talking about good versus evil. Would you stop using your legs because there are some people who cannot walk? No, you use your legs. It’s not selfish if you use them to do what you need to do. Sure, it’s better if you can use a talent to help others, and for certain, most magic users used to do exactly that. It is part of what is so unfair about the ban on magic. Our physicians used to heal people, Merlin. The town mages used to set wards for protection. We used to tame dragons and beasts. My people used to care for the soul of land. We used to monitor the moods of the earth and soothe them for better weather, healthier crops. When it comes down to it, we’re just petty humans the same as any mortal, Merlin. We’re flesh and blood with extra sparkle, and you and I shouldn’t have to lie about something that is as fundamental to us as an arm or a leg.”

Merlin walks over to the window. “I don’t disagree with you. I just don't trust you.”

Mordred sighs, his headache returning. “As you like it. Now, stop being such a prat and come and heal me.”

Merlin doesn’t move. “If I heal your eye, someone will question it.”

“I meant my headache actually.”

Mordred is expecting some retort. What he’s not expecting is for Merlin to stride toward him. He’s not expecting coarse fingers to push across his temples. The pressure causes him to shiver, but then Mordred hears the soft whispers of the ancient tongue fluttering from Merlin’s lips, and what’s more is that he sees the magic in the room take shape around him. It crowns him with its garland, tingling as if twigs were poking him. The prongs sink in until they catch. Then, there’s the rough drag of the pain being ripped away. It’s such a strangled relief that Mordred moans without meaning to. His fingers dig into the bed sheets.

When Mordred is able to rouse himself, he looks up to find Merlin standing three paces away—nearly on the other side of the room. He’s flushed even on his neck. Mordred thinks about teasing him but stops himself. "Thank you."

"It healed your eye a bit too—but not too much. No one will notice." Merlin’s eyes stay averted.

"Come here," Mordred beckons. "I want to teach you something."

Merlin doesn’t budge an inch. His eyes look jealously at the door. "Teach me what?"

"How to look into a mind."

Merlin’s eyes return to Mordred. "No."

Mordred shakes his head. "In the hands of the well-intentioned it’s an important skill. For example, what if someone is plotting against Arthur? What if a good soul—someone close to him—has been turned? Or better yet," Mordred grins at him, "what if the youngest knight of Camelot is illicitly seducing his way through the ranks?"

"Funny," Merlin says, but his shoulders relax. "You wouldn’t let me see into your mind anyway."

"There are different levels to it. I’m not suggesting you dig around in someone’s mind for idle pleasure. Besides, trying to get into my mind would be… a very bad idea." Mordred doesn’t mean it to come off as a threat—but there are too many bad memories—so it comes off as a threat. "And I’m not sure I could let you in even if I wanted to."

Merlin’s brows arch. "But you think my mind will open up?"

"Surface thought-skimming—nothing like replacing a memory. Now come here." Mordred pats the spot next to him on the bed.

Merlin doesn’t sit, but he does pay attention as Mordred demonstrates, as he explains the weaves and forces. For this sort of magic, Mordred rarely uses the ancient tongue. The mind is too delicate for most spells, but then in truth, there’s no need. Merlin is a better student in this regard, for he sees the patterns like Mordred does.

 _It’s terrifying what you could do with this_ Merlin says after a Mordred has tickled the front of his mind.

_You’re thinking about Arthur._

Oh, and then there’s the anger. _Get out of my mind._

_Make me._

Merlin’s magic physically shoves Mordred back into his bunk.

"I suppose that works too," Mordred grunts. "But now you’re responsible for fixing my second headache."

Merlin does indeed fix his second headache. And Mordred doesn’t have to be inside of Merlin’s mind to see how nervous he is, putting his palms over the sides of Mordred’s face. Mordred isn’t sure if the nerves are from practicing highly illegal magic in Camelot or if they are resonance from Merlin’s voyeurism of the previous night. Mordred isn’t sure if Merlin’s ready to admit to himself that he likes men. But he puts all of those wonderings aside, because he really does want to show Merlin. It’s annoying that Merlin doesn’t already know this spellweaving. He’s as capable at it as Mordred.

"A strong mind will block you," Mordred says, after the third time he blocks Merlin’s attempts to slip into his own.

"Is Arthur’s mind strong?" Merlin asks, and for the first time, he’s looking pleased with himself.

"You know it is."

"And besides skimming thoughts, you can add memories. Like you did with the tailor." For the first time, Merlin sounds more interested, less accusatory.

"The tailor was easy. It’s not like he doesn’t spend all day working on clothes. Making him believe he’d already done that stack only required a moment of confusion. It wasn’t like I was trying to give him a new life. Or make him forget an entire person." The last bit is a bitter afterthought.

Merlin doesn’t miss Mordred’s tone. You’ve done that before. You’ve erased memories."

"I don’t really want to talk about it."

"With Percival?"

"No. Not Percival. Not in Camelot. There was a boy that I—he found out I had magic. I thought he cared for me. And maybe he did, but doubts crept in. There’s nothing like fear to drive love from a heart, to breed resentment where before there was caring, and well, after a time, he told some people. The local militia showed up. It was a bad situation. I lost control of my magic. The guards…"

When Mordred glances up, Merlin’s face is more sad than judging. "What happened to the boy?"

"I would _never_ have hurt him. No, it was like I was saying. I had to erase myself from his mind. Then, I fled and began to earn my way as a bandit. A charmed life if there ever was."

"Why a bandit?"

"It was that or selling myself in back alleys to diseased men. Or—I suppose I could have ‘planted’ memories in a family’s head—made them believe I’d been recommended to them as a servant. Hell, maybe even tricked them into giving me a higher wage. So as you can see, the world is just filled with brilliant opportunities for our kind."

Merlin’s face doesn’t pity. His head is cocked to the side like he’s thinking hard. "Why Percival, then? What if you mess up again?"

Mordred drops his chin. "You’re asking me why I don’t want to be alone. Think about that."

"I—" Merlin swallows. "It’s just that he’s going to find out. What if happens? What if he finds out?"

Mordred leans back into his pillow. "I don’t know."

"Your eyes flash gold when you—"

"You shouldn’t know that," Mordred says. "But… I know. I am well too aware. There’s just nothing I can do to stop it—unless I choose to never be with anyone."

When he glances up, Emrys’s eyes are glowing gold, but the magic around them isn’t doing anything. It just feels ready.

 

 

Probably because of the fiasco with the Disir, when Morgana abducts the queen, Arthur does not invite Mordred along. If either Percival or Merlin were staying behind, Mordred could bear it, but since both are going, Mordred is as sour as a thornberry for the better part of a week. Not to mention, Percival was _bit_ by one of Morgana’s magical serpents. Cleverly, Morgana’s imbued her seer magic into the bite so that the images are already planted. Removing them would do more harm than good. Thus, there’s nothing Mordred can do but drag Percival into a back cranny of the keep and snap warnings all the while kissing him senseless.

While they’re gone, Mordred has nothing to do but practice his sword and play cards at the tavern. He doesn’t drink. It’s not so nearly amusing as it when Gwaine is around to joke with or Percival is around to wine-kiss and drag into a hay pile or an empty castle bedroom. There’s not even Merlin to practice magic with. No matter that Merlin still glances over his shoulder like someone’s going to come in at any second (despite the fact that he’s demonstrating to Mordred how to _stop time_ ).

When Arthur returns with Gwen, Mordred’s entire focus is on how Percival has been wounded—the utter lout. Who goes to _The Dark Tower_ and isn’t on the lookout for booby-trapped flagstones? Really, Mordred’s surprised that there wasn’t a griffin sitting at the top of the spiral stair. Only an enchanted sword? Also, he doesn’t understand why Morgana fled. He’s less surprised that Elyan sacrificed his life to save his sister.

Elyan was by no means his closest friend, but he was a friend nevertheless. At the funeral, Mordred’s heart is heavy. In the hour before, Percival broke down—he and Elyan had been close—but now, Percival stands as gallant and stoic as any knight of Camelot. Mordred tries to imitate him.

Later, after everyone is gone, he’ll say a druid prayer for Elyan. Let both religions, ye Old and the New, bless the knight’s journey into the beyond.

On the opposite side of the gathering, Merlin meets his eyes. The look, with the white-blue of Merlin’s irises, is haunted. It makes Mordred wonder what happened on this quest. Did Merlin use his magic? He must have. But did he use it enough? Would Elyan still be alive if he’s been free to use it as much as he needed to? Or would it be Merlin that they were burying right now? With no grave—no marker—just ashes in a field. Another cold-blooded sorcerer revealed.

It makes Mordred’s throat tighten. He has to force himself to swallow. 

Lies are such abominable creatures. They constrict until there’s no air.

 

Here’s the problem with Mordred: he keeps making the same mistake over and over again. And this time in many ways it’s worse. It’s not just Percival. It’s the whole of bloody Camelot. He wears her red mantle and silver mail across his chest. He makes jokes with her king. His fellow knights treat him like a brother. If there’s a bit of patronizing, it’s also mixed with respect, or the acknowledgment that Mordred is working hard and already wields the sword like a young lord trained from boyhood. When mishaps occur—like the time he slips on the grass and skids right into a compost heap—they are not causes of silent misery. No, they’re tavern stories for the delight of his friends. Of late, his day doesn't seem real until he’s told one of the knights of it. So, it’s not just Percival that’s knotted his fingers in Mordred’s heartstrings—it’s all of the knights, it’s the city, it’s the whole bloody kingdom.

In the embrace of such caring, it’s so easy to forget.

He and Percival are on their way to a tavern in one of the outlying towns—a place where they can get drunk—request a room—and have no one remark on it. It’s market day, boisterous with the clucking of chickens and women haggling over aubergine and turnips. A booth in the corner is obscured by a strangled net. Herbs hang from the wooden slat at the top, and a large bottle filled with some black potion smokes, sending an anise fumes slinking down the aisle. A hand-scrawled symbol of some sort—not a rune—is burned into a wooden slab propped against the front table leg.

“Think that might be sorcery?” Percival asks.

Mordred snorts. “More like an apothecary with terrible aesthetics.”

But Percival has none of his humour. “It’s just worrisome. Arthur has grown... lax. And yet we have Morgana wreaking havoc. It might spread if we’re not careful.”

Mordred suddenly feels cold, like the wind has ripped right through him. “You’d have Arthur be more like Uther?”

“No. I’d have Arthur be like Arthur. It’s just that you can only achieve justice when you have both the moral and physical power to do so. It’s why we train as knights.”

“True.” For what Percival says _is_ true—it just goes too far. For it is just not fair to assume that a sorcerer would be any more or less moral than a knight. That they couldn't adhere to a code. The druids swore to non-violence. Even more powerful than any knight’s oaths. Percival’s inference makes him think of Uther. Of his father, and it’s why he says more than he should. “Then again, if Uther had never been so harsh, we probably wouldn’t have an evil Morgana if—”

Percival's face is worried. “I can’t speak fairly of her. I didn’t know her before. Leon says she was kind and fair hearted until the magic.”

“She was kind to me as a boy, though her evil makes her my enemy now, Mordred says. He does not say what he truly wants to, that if magic wasn’t banned, Morgana would be on their side. That it was the lie and not the magic that made her evil. Elyan and others would be alive. At his left, Percival is bent away, looking at Mordred in a way that is both attempting to be sympathetic and that is also wholly discomfited. 

“Anyway—” Mordred grabs Percival’s arm “—the tavern’s just around the corner. Are you buying or am I?”

The smile returns to Percival’s face. “You buried Leon at cards. I know you’re flush.”

“I’m still paying off the tanner for that ridiculous tack. I really don’t see why any horse needs white lamb’s wool underneath—but apparently the knights of Camelot are secretly fussy dames when it comes to their hunting accessories—”

“Fine. I’ll pay,” Percival grumbles, but he’s smiling.

Later, when they’re upstairs and the candle flame is shivering from the rattle of the bed, Mordred can’t stop remembering the conversation from earlier. _It might spread if we’re not careful._

Percival has two fingers slick with oil, and they’re pushing inside of Mordred. Laid back on the bed, Mordred should love this. He refuses get paranoid. He’s going to relax. 

“At least three,” Mordred rasps, because if there’s one thing that can be said about Percival’s dick is that it matches the man. It is just fucking huge, and even if Mordred is crazy enough to take it—he’s not stupid.

Percival always looks at Mordred like he can’t believe this is happening. He smiles, letting loose the odd, flustered laugh. His disbelieving stares when they’re like this are so intense they’re uncouth, make him seem barbaric, even stupid now and again. But mostly, it makes him seem younger than Mordred, and when he kisses Mordred’s thigh and says, “You’re everything I ever wanted,” the tenderness is painful in how badly Mordred wants to believe it.

Percival works him open until Mordred is shaking, ready to spill out—which is not in the plans. Mordred flips onto his belly, pushing his arse in the air, possibly wiggling it a little—not that a soul alive could ever get him to confess it.

Percival only laughs and grabs the sides of Mordred’s rump like he owns it all. Yet, this time, he doesn’t automatically move to enter. No. He asks, “Can we try it face to face?”

Mordred freezes. Face to face means _stare into my eyes_. Face to face means Mordred could slip. Face to face means total trust.

So, Mordred has to muster a laugh and poke Percival in the chest. “You’re too big—you brute. We still need to work up to it. Stop being greedy and get on with it.”

Percival grunts, but it’s not offended. And really, Mordred hasn't lied. The first time they did this, Mordred had been unable to ride a horse for three days. With this press, though, Mordred is ready. He breathes in even, long draughts of air. No matter that he’s shaking, Percival’s thrusts stay shallow and constant. They sting, but never too much at once. And as Mordred relaxes, the strokes grow longer and deeper, and Percival lets go of his hips to crawl up Mordred’s back, where they can be cheek to cheek and Percival can kiss his ear as he rocks their bodies.

The last two times, the pain had dampened the pleasure so that Percival had finished him after, taking him in hand and stroking him while smearing sloppy _thankyou-thankyou_ and _youaregorgeous_ and _ohMordred_ beneath his Adam’s apple. But this time, Mordred is arching back into it. His spine gets taut like a bowstring. When Percival comes, pulling on Mordred’s hair and slamming and holding them down into the mattress, Mordred is there with him scrambling for a grip on the bed posts and grinding his teeth—but most of all, squeezing his eyes shut like the world might end. And in a way, it does. The candle is smote as a tendril of unseen magic whips out.

In the darkness, Percival draws him close, stroking his back in long reassuring sweeps. “I love you,” he says.

Mordred thinks, _But do you know me?_ And maybe he doesn't blame Merlin so much anymore. As he kisses Percival, he realizes it’s probably for the last time. This can’t last. If he lets this go on, Mordred’s going to ruin both of them.

Better to remove the tinder before the log catches.

 

Mordred goes to the infirmary the next day to find Merlin. Gaius isn't in, but Mordred can feel Merlin’s presence in a small room off to the side. When he pushes open the door, it’s to see Merlin using the full length of his bed with a book—clearly of spells—propped like a ladder against his headboard.

“Thank you for knocking,” Merlin mutters, not looking up.

Mordred goes over and sits down on the edge of the quilt. “You knew it was me.”

“Yes, but even Arthur knocks.”

“How many times did you yell at him?”

A smirk twists Merlin’s mouth. “At least four.”

“And that fourth time, did he walk in on you with your hand on your manhood?”

Merlin leans in even closer to his book. “I won’t say.”

“It’s funny. Arthur probably thought it was a real accident—but me, I know better. I’d bet that you were putting on a show.”

Merlin slams the book shut. A cloud of dust erupts from it. “What bug bit you?” Merlin demands, but then he’s frowning at Mordred—and admittedly, Mordred is hung over and thrice buggered and heartsick—so “wretched” might be one of the kinder descriptions for his appearance.

“I have to end things.”

“With Percival.”

“Yes.”

“That was always going to be the case,” Merlin says.

For a second, Mordred is furious with him. His magic even charges up a bit.

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Wait—I didn’t—I am _sorry_ about Percival. He cares about you. It’ll be hard for him as well.”

Mordred closes his eyes and forces himself to take a long breath. “Not really. I’m going to have to hide it—make him forget. Don’t freak out about it.”

Merlin leans back against the stone wall. “I know you’d rather not. That’s become quite obvious.”

Mordred has said what needs to be said on the subject. Pointing at the book, he says, “So you’ve been studying. My influence?” He’s incapable of mustering a smile, but as he forces the edges of his mouth up, he’d like to think he’s no longer frowning.

Merlin runs his fingers along the spine. “ I've mostly been focused on healing spells the past couple of years, but you’ve influenced me.” The edge of his mouth twinges.

“What’s the current spell?” Mordred sits upright.

“A detection spell. For ailments.” And before Mordred can stop him, Merlin’s cast the weaves over him.

Mordred is deciding whether to be mortified or furious when the magic brightens over the scratches on his back and finally glows like a lantern _down there_ in the exact spot where last night’s activities with Percival have left him sore. “Yes, Merlin, thank you. Now it seems you know that I’m shitting sunshine. I really appreciate your concern.”

But Merlin’s eyes are huge. “Did he hurt you?”

Oh that death would come. “Not in any way that I didn't want him to.”

Merlin tugs on his scarf and looks away, and yet his magic is still sweeping the room, circling around Mordred like it’s afraid to let go of him.

“The spell? Would you release it?” Mordred begs after still another minute has passed.

Merlin twists but he doesn't let go of the magic. Rather, he closes the arm’s length between the two of them and grabs Mordred’s wrist. His eyes are blazing gold, and when he whispers the words of healing, Mordred’s whole body shudders—won’t stop shuddering. And Merlin is looking at him, a strange mix of willfulness and compassion.

Mordred is the one to break the gaze. The moment he does, the spell stops. The shuddering stops. 

“Some detection spell,” Mordred jibes.

“I didn't mean to pry.” But Merlin doesn't sound remorseful.

“Yes, well now we know not to do that particular spell in public. Good lord, you could probably detect women’s monthlies—or worse yet, a pregnancy.”

“As if I’d be doing any such spells in public.”

“Right. Okay. Well, I’m going to leave now.” Mordred stands, and if he notices how standing is easier now than it was a minute ago, he makes no comment. “Do keep practicing though. Just warn me next time.”

Merlin is nodding, spell book clutched to his chest, as Mordred toes open the door.

 

He takes Percival out for drinks, and then when he’s got him alone, he casts the magic.

“You never kissed me. You never touched me. We got drunk, and you might have imagined a scene or two, but we never flirted. The girl that led you out to the alley that night was a frisky barmaid—that Maggie girl with slim hips and no breasts to speak of. You were drunk enough that you didn't mind it when she pressed you to her.”

“Mordred,” Percival whispers, eyes squinted like he doesn't know why Mordred is with him like this, so quiet in the darkness.

“Mordred is nothing more than your dear friend, your fellow knight.” Mordred embraces Percival, wrapping his arms tight around his barrel chest before marching away with the coldness of a mercenary having made his day's pay.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, the gripe hits him hard. Gwaine plies him with his ale flask, saying “It’s better than anything that Gaius can poison you with.” 

But Mordred waves him off, repeating, “I’ll be fine in a day.”

On the next morn, he’s even sicker, so when he emerges from his bunk three days later (having emitted the contents of his stomach into a pot several times over), it’s to find out that there was an incident with Arthur and his horse and now Tyr Seward—the _nice_ stable boy—is dead. Right, and Arthur was _poisoned_ by Morgana but somehow the queen blamed Merlin—and it really doesn't make a lick of sense as various people fill him in on odds and ends. Except that in the end, Arthur is alive and Merlin was exonerated. 

Mordred’s first act is to take Gwaine’s advice and avoid the castle water at all costs.

Then, he hunts down Merlin in the infirmary. As he clumps down the steps, Gaius says, “He’s in his room. He’s resting.” But then he looks at Mordred and says, “As you should be. Why didn't you come see me if you were unwell?” 

“I’m on the mend.” Mordred brushes aside the fussing and pushes open Merlin’s door.

Merlin is not on his bed but rather huddled in the back corner. His chin is buried in his palms. The normal, warm aura that surrounds him remains ever present but in this hour it seems evasive, as if it were bruised on one side. 

_What did you do to your magic?_ Mordred asks, rubbing at his temple.

 _Saved Arthur_.

_From that poison? It was a poison wasn’t it?_

_It was a poison. And now my magic is drained._

“More like sprained,” Mordred says, walking right up to Merlin before sitting down before him. “You went from healing abrasions and headaches to eradicating an entire body’s worth of toxins. You haven’t drained anything. It’s more like you sprinted your heart out after only having walked ever in your life.”

“The practice we’ve been doing. Even the detection spells. If I hadn’t been doing them lately, I’m not sure I could have saved him. He was so near death. I had barely enough control as it was.” Merlin looks so horrified with himself as he says it.

Mordred pats his knee. “Well, you did it, you big powerful warlock. You saved the king.”

Merlin nods. “But it’s not over yet. I think there’s something wrong with Gwen.”

“Did she truly accuse you?”

Merlin nods again.

Mordred considers that. “Morgana did give her up all too easily—and I’m not close to the queen. She never chooses me to be among her personal guard on her walks, but she has been different lately. I’d assumed it was because of Elyan.”

“We all did.”

“So... have you checked her mind?”

“I’ve been locked in a jail most of the past two days—and all I got from her earlier was, well, that she hated me, but considering that she thinks I killed Arthur...”

“If Morgana is manipulating her, she might know about us.”

Merlin freezes. “So we don’t have much time. This could blow up in our faces at any moment.”

Mordred thwacks Merlin on the top of his knee. “Oh please.”

“Oh please what?”

“If it was that easy, Morgana would snitched an age ago.”

“Would she? I always assumed it was some sort of code she has, as in she won’t unveil other sorcerers or whatever.”

“ _Or_ , it could be that she fears that should she unveil your much more powerful magic, it’ll be the pulling of the sword out of the scabbard. Why, it might be her worst fear. Only think of a Camelot with Emrys standing in robes beside a high king. Wisdom and power and justice and a terrible amount of sarcasm—Albion will have to bow and unite. The only alternative is a stupendous amount of whinging.”

Merlin is smiling at him. “I don’t see myself the way that you do.”

“Like I said, you’ve been a servant too long, friend.”

“Are we?”

“What?”

“Are we friends?”

Mordred feels quite put out by the question. “What else would you call me?”

Merlin lets his head fall back against the wall. His eyes brighten with an internal argument.

“Merlin, it was a simple question. Does not require an abacus.”

“No. It’s just… You’re right. We are friends.”

Mordred is deeply concerned by how confused Merlin sounds as he says it.

 

Nearly a week passes before Mordred is in the presence of the queen. With the way he _never sees her_ , one might think a certain sorceress had advised Her Highness to avoid him. Nevertheless, one morning, the queen appears at practice. The former serving girl shows none of her previous station. Her brown dress has golden embroidering, while her caramel silk cape has matching brown symbols. Her hair is bound up with flowers, and the effect of her rich beauty is distracting enough that one could miss that she’s on a mission.

Arthur and Gwaine are mid-field. They’re practicing with staffs. Shirtless. Mordred has been attempting to watch their skilful moves, but there are biceps and shoulders and stomach muscles with sweat glistening in gullies of skin. Plus, they’re so mad passionate when they do it. Fighting is the one activity in the world that Gwaine takes seriously, and Arthur is no less equal in fervour.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch the king?” the queen asks Sir Leon.

“I would, Your Majesty, but I fear it would cost me some fingers,” Leon jokes and the other knights guffaw.

The queen smiles good-naturedly and she waits less than patiently. Her shoulders are swaying and she’s bouncing on her toes.

Her thoughts are…

_—Sarrum coming and not a word!—_

_—After lunch at midday, a walk by the elm.—_

_Arthur: white faced, laughing at her. Eyes black sockets. Ghost hands crowding her neck._

It takes a minute for Mordred to collect himself. In his scabbard, his sword gains in weight, like it might take on a mind of its own. His hands are shaking, and he’s avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone. The queen’s thoughts are greased. Their texture is silted. Mordred thinks of the black powder on Gaius’s table, and yes, this is mandrake root. It has to be. 

Three years ago, Mordred was in an apothecary where the master was chopping a single root fresh. It looked soft and black almost like meat. With each cut of the knife, Mordred had flinched over it, for it was as if every drop of sap was singing the spirit out of his pores. He had left the shop at once and with a headache.

Oh, the poor queen. It must have been more than one than one root. He imagines a bleeding dark forest. Morgana had to work fast to break such a strong will. The sap would have worked over the queen. It would have pulled and pulled until it got a grip. And in the end, it did. The roots grow within the Lady now. Her veins must be blackening with them.

How Mordred loathes Morgana to his core.

His thoughts are such in their intensity that he forgets himself. He’s brought back when a hand clasps his shoulder and Arthur says, “Sorry, mate, but she’s taken.”

All the knights laugh—that is, except for Gwaine, who looks more ready to laugh at Arthur than at Mordred.

Mordred apologizes quickly. “The queen is ever lovely to behold.”

Her Majesty grants him a smile before rounding on Arthur. “I like him. Does not Mordred have the fairest eyes? Like crystals.”

Everyone is now looking him in the eyes. Mordred swallows.

“I thought you liked _my_ eyes,” Arthur complains.

“I liked them better when they were forthright. Tell me, darling. Why was I not informed about the imminent arrival of our guest? The king of Amata is coming. That seems like the sort of information that a queen would need to know.” 

“He’s in the doghouse now,” one of the knights jokes, and then they’re all laughing as Gwen grabs Arthur’s arm and steers him away from the practice yard. 

Still, even without their king, the knights know their business. On Thursdays, they practice footwork, so they split into pairs and return to their melee.

 

Mordred tells Merlin about the mandrake root. About how it’s likely growing even deeper in the queen.

“Then she’s Morgana’s puppet. Gwen is really going to kill him, isn’t she?” Merlin’s hands wipe down his cheeks.

“She’ll try certainly.”

“And you can’t heal her?”

Mordred sighs. “She has a strong mind. That’s why it took more than a day’s torture with mandrake root to break her. You can’t reverse its effect with a snap of the fingers. Morgana knew what she was doing when she plotted this.”

“Oh Gwen,” Merlin murmurs. His hands are panes over his cheeks again. “I have to find a spell or an elixir or something. I have to fix this.”

“In the meantime, she’s a threat to Arthur. I suppose telling him that his wife is plotting his demise isn’t exactly on the round table…?”

“It would be Gwen’s word against mine.” Merlin looses a maudlin laugh. “We know how that would end.”

“Do we?”

Merlin folds inward. His bottom lip has disappeared beneath his teeth. “I—we—um—I kissed him once. It was the only time I’ve ever been drunk like that.”

“I see.”

Merlin closes his eyes. “He kissed me back. We were off in a tent by ourselves—and he kissed me back—and for a moment I was daft with bliss—but then it stopped—he stopped. He said ‘We couldn’t.’ He said he needed Gwen and heirs and that I didn’t have a bosom, and ‘What the hell are we doing?’ He said we’d been away from women too long. And then he went right to sleep. Out like a light. Not a care in the world. I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, waiting for him to wake up, I was so scared. Utterly terrified. But Arthur just said, ‘Merlin, for once, don’t be a prat. Bring me the strongest cup of tea in the land.’ And I said, ‘Okay.’ That’s how it’s been ever since. I have loved him, but his devotion belongs to Gwen. He is my best friend and my king, and even if it hurts, even if my magic quakes from time to time from these walls, I have protected him in secret. I have brought him hot water and cleaned up his dishes, and yet it has never been mere duty or chores or a wage. For Arthur, it has been an honour.”

This Mordred understands. “You love him.”

“Got that, did you?”

“The luck that some men have,” Mordred murmurs.

Merlin’s eyes snap to his. “Did you love Percival?”

Mordred doesn’t want to talk about it, but Merlin has just poured his heart out. He’s been completely honest. It’s the least that Mordred can do to try and meet him halfway. “I was in danger of it—but no.”

Merlin bends to the right, and Mordred decides he must be stiff and needing a stretch, except that Merlin pitches forward onto his knees. Merlin’s face is toward the window. His eyes are averted. Mordred wonders for a moment if Merlin is holding back emotion, if he isn’t near tears. Thus, when Merlin reaches for him, Mordred assumes he’s seeking comfort in an embrace. But it’s not that. What it is, is a hand cupping the back of Mordred’s neck, dry spearmint lips nipping at the corner of his mouth, and eyes that are burning gold.

Magic floods the room, like the castle has been dropped into a lake, and the great gold waters surge in through the windows, bubbling up through the cracks in the floor. It’s overwhelming because even if Merlin is a lanky, pale creature, his magic is cream beneath the fingers, thick like butter when you push, and also so peaceful with its bright wings that stir the air. It makes Mordred forget. He starts to yield to the imploring of the prayer. He opens his mouth and Emrys sucks him in deeper.

Except he can’t.

This isn’t why he’s—

“Merlin,” he rasps, starting to pull back.

But Merlin doesn’t let him go. “I want you.” His voice is so deep from arousal. 

“You don’t.” For whom Merlin wants is Arthur. Merlin loves their king. It’s why he’s still Merlin and not Emrys.

“But I could,” Merlin counters as if he’s hearing Mordred’s thoughts. Is he?

To be free, Mordred jerks back. “Is ‘But I could’ supposed to be good enough for either of us?”

Merlin is nodding. “We don’t have to hide from each other. We can be exactly as we are. No—better. We can be more. Like you said, we can be _great_.”

Mordred laughs, a happy laugh, because really, these words—they’re exactly why he came here. They’re exactly what he’s wanted. Yet, Merlin is still holding his face, looking at Mordred like he’s determined to try for another kiss. Mordred doesn’t let him. No, he smashes Merlin’s head into his neck, squeezing him as tight as he can, as if they were brothers. “You don’t need me to be your lover for any of that.”

“I can’t believe it,” Merlin says grouchily. “This is a rejection.”

“You know I’m not ready.”

Merlin peers speculatively at him. “You are not at all what I thought. Then, perhaps, you are…” Merlin reaches to brush a curl out of Mordred’s eyes.

Mordred knocks his hand away. “I am what?”

Merlin smirks, and he’s flirting horribly when he shapes a ball of crackling violet light in his hand. “You’re dangerous.”

“Well…” Merlin allows his own magic to float in the air. It forms a second layer around Merlin’s darker globe. “I suppose I am at that.” He lets his light smash at Merlin’s.

Merlin laughs, and when he turns to Mordred, the look is so happy, so free of any shame, with eyes like the sky and a mouth that deserves to be kissed by someone, and Mordred wonders if it wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world to let himself fall once again.

 

They spend the next few days pouring through spell books. Merlin apparently used illicit means to swipe them from the library. Something about Sir Jeffrey and a weakness for poppy.

Flipping through one of the few relevant tomes, Mordred says, “I think a potion really is our only solution—unless we can find Sidhe to bite her. Not that there are any this side of Avalon these days, so definitely, a potion. The problem will be the ingredients. Have you ever heard of a sunwing?”

Merlin doesn’t answer him. When Mordred looks up, Merlin is doing an odd crosshatch of spirit and earth. When he hisses under his breath, “wyrd,” the magic seems to seep into the door and wall.

“Was that a ward? If it was, I’ve never seen its like.”

“Not a physical ward but I was looking at some of these spells, and I realized if I incorporated some of your talents, I could use it as a ‘memory enhancer’, so that it will redirect anyone who comes here. They remember they left the kettle on or decide they’re hungry. That sort of thing. If someone is really determined to come in, like there’s a fire or a real threat, it won’t do much to stop them.”

“Do it again,” Mordred insists, because he likes seeing his own pattern mixed in with the rest.

With the ward in place, there’s a sense of safety for practicing magic. The real test, though, comes when Arthur storms into the infirmary.

They hear his holler through the door. “Merlin! Gaius, where’s Merlin? I haven’t yet had my bath.”

“Merlin is…” Gaius starts to walk their way until the floorboards creak, and he gasps. “I forgot the celery root! Over stewed with frog legs in the mix. Imagine the smell.”

“Oh, celery. I hate it. The smell isn’t bad, though. Do you think I smell? Wait. My _bath_.”

Mordred begins to wonder if Arthur’s bath might count as an emergency strong enough to break the ward.

“Should you be worried about your personal scent, I have soap. I milled it myself and used my own extracts. Lavender and rose hip.” There’s the scratch of a basket being yanked off the shelf.

Mordred raises a brow. _Lavender and rose hip?_

Merlin shrugs.

On the other side of the door, Arthur says, “I like that. Splendid.”

“When you’re in a rush, it’s a godsend.”

“Thank you, Gaius.” Arthur begins to head out, past right by Merlin’s door. “Pretty.” He’s sniffing at the soap.

It’s only after the infirmary door clicks shut that Mordred can stop smothering his hysterics into Merlin’s quilt.

It’s even worse an hour later when Arthur returns. “How is it that I left here with soap and no bath?”

It’s reached the point where it’s just really not fair to Gaius, so Merlin charges out of his room.

Arthur launches into a tirade about how Merlin is the _worst servant ever_ but Merlin bears it with good humour. As he’s pushing Arthur out of Gaius’s space, Merlin even comments, “Why do you need a bath? You smell good. Like roses.”

Arthur goes silent with a hiss.

That evening, though, Mordred finds a potion that will work. It will require Merlin’s magic, but the ingredients are relatively easy to find and it takes less than a week to brew. It should be ready in time for Sarrum’s arrival.

 

On the day of Sarrum’s arrival, Merlin is nowhere to be found. In fact, Mordred is about to check in the infirmary for a second time when he hears Arthur inside, bellowing about Merlin’s absence. When Mordred inquires among the servants, the cook seems to be the last person who saw him, and that was late last night. It gives Mordred a bad feeling. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have time for any tracking spells or even a moment to check on the queen. His presence is required in the courtyard along with the other knights. He has to rush to get his gear on as it is, but then he’s in the line-up, and more so, he’s flattered when Arthur pulls him down by his side, saying, “Stand tall. Use those ‘pretty eyes.” Arthur glowers. “Gwen suggested it. She said it’d be better if we looked youthful and ‘vital.’”

Mordred smiles, but his chest seizes up. What the hell is going on?

“Have you seen Merlin today, my lord?”

“No! Lazy lie-about. I should have Gwaine see if he’s in the tavern.”

“I think that would be a waste of time. Merlin never goes to the tavern.”

Arthur looks like he’s about to ask a question when the sound of horses is heard through the gateway.

Sarrum of Amata has arrived.

 

At night, he goes to Merlin’s room. They have the potion standing in a crate in Merlin’s room. There are wards set up around it, but Mordred has begun to question if they’re sufficient to thwart the likes of Morgana.

For the brew to be effective, a spell is supposed to be cast over the liquid right at midnight. The spell is a complicated one. They chose it because Merlin could certainly do it, and the ingredients were easy to acquire, not having much native magic within themselves.

The spirit aspects of the magic are not beyond Mordred’s talents, but the water weaves... and the way they tangle with the earth—Mordred isn’t sure he can do it.

But Merlin isn’t here. When Mordred cast the spell over Camelot’s maps, the small sticks had spun before whipping off the table. So Merlin must be outside the city—yet he couldn’t have gone that far, could he? Either way, this is Mordred’s task now, so he pushes his sleeves up past his elbows and takes a big, deep breath. With his fingers fanned out over the potion, Mordred whispers the words and then—as the magic charges out of him—he holds on for dear life.

The spirit magic creates the web almost too fast, and so the earth is being shoved in like rocks—but the water smoothes it out—that’s right, the water weaves can release the friction—and Mordred is shaking. The room is flaming even though there’s no fire in the magic. At some point he realizes that the shape might burst—and no, no. He calls on his magic once again. 

It seems a miracle when the weave coalesces into a perfect shape—but then Mordred collapses.

When he wakes up the next morning, his cheek is smashed into a candle and Gaius is standing over him. “Do I want to know?” the castle physician asks.

Mordred shakes his head. “What time is it? And have you seen Merlin?”

“They will sign the treaty within the hour. I have yet to see Merlin this morning. I’m worried about him.”

“Me too—with Morgana parading about.”

Gaius gives him a look that says he knows exactly what Mordred is talking about.

“I’m supposed to be at the ceremony.” Mordred forces himself to his feet.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Gaius’s eyes are on the potion.

“Oh.” Mordred swallows. He and Gaius have never really spoken. He knows that Gaius keeps Merlin’s secret—that Gaius has had reason to use magic himself on occasion. Gaius is also aware that Mordred has magic—it’s just that they’ve never spoken of it. 

“Merlin said you two were working on a draught for the queen.”

“We were.”

“The queen alleged to Arthur and me this morning that Merlin had run off to see a girl.” By the widening of Gaius’s eyes, he knows how preposterous that lie is.

“A girl.” Mordred keeps his expression plaintive. “Was the girl’s name Morgana?”

“Go to the ceremony. Afterwards, we’ll find Merlin. In the meantime...” Gaius waves his hand at the small pot. “Hand it over. I’ll get it bottled. We’ll see if we can’t come up with an excuse for the queen to take some medicine.”

“Thank you.”

“Now watch over the king,” Gaius insists.

 

Mordred deciphers the thoughts in Sarrum’s mind at almost the exact moment that he pinpoints the assassin with the crossbow, but then Sarrum is screaming. The knights of Amata are brandishing their swords. Up on the balustrade, Mordred hears Merlin shout—and sees the assassin slump forward.

Knights are surrounding Arthur—he’s going to be fine. Mordred runs for the stairs. At the top, some other knights are already there, but what Mordred doesn’t expect to see is Merlin slumped over a boy. Dressed in druids’ garb, the boy looks maybe two-three years younger than Mordred, except that he will age no further. Taking in Merlin’s grievous expression, Mordred looks down and sees the bolt in the boy’s stomach.

“He was too far gone—and I was too weak—I couldn’t—I wanted to save him.”

“It’s okay,” Mordred says, but it’s not. It’s not at all. Merlin smells like hemlock and vipersmouth and vomit. His scarf is marred by a chalky white stain. Even accounting for his sadness, the circles under his eyes look burned in. His pallor is ghastly.

“He saved me,” Merlin says. “I should have been able to save him.”

Behind Mordred, the knights are already moving the assassin’s body. Two more look ready to move the boy’s.

“Merlin,” Mordred points with his eyes to where the knights are waiting.

“He gave his life for the king,” Merlin says. “Treat him well.”

As the knights bring the boy away, Merlin moves to stand—only to wobble and fall back against the wall. 

Mordred helps him up. “ _You_ are going straight to bed.”

Merlin manages to find his balances but he’s swaying dangerously. “I thought you said you weren’t taking me to bed.”

Mordred pauses and glares at Merlin. “Stop flirting when you’re like this. It’s upsetting.”

Merlin throws an arm over his neck and leans into him. “Not sorry.”

 

Merlin’s eyes look like great lilac-coloured onions through Mordred’s side of the flask. “You did it. The potion is sound. You see the weaves? It’s the flip opposite of mandrake powder—it’s luminous and effervescent.”

Mordred is actually pretty proud that he didn't blow both himself and the potion up. Not that Merlin needs to know that. “Why, thank you, so are we going to use it? Slip the queen some funny apples so that she requests a stopper tonic from Gaius?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It won’t work. Not at this point. Gwen is clever. She’d see right through it, and after this most recent failure...”

“So here’s the question. Are you going to wait for another assassination attempt—one that may well succeed—or are we going to confront this head on?”

“I’m afraid,” Merlin says.

“Of Arthur dying or of accusing Morgana of mind-raping his wife?”

Merlin frowns at him, but then he looks down at the floor. “I’ll tell him tonight.” He rolls the flask between his fingers. The glass moistens with sweat.

 

It’s that evening after practice when Mordred finds Merlin in his room.

Instantly, Mordred knows it’s bad.

“I told him about Gwen,” Merlin said, and then he collapsed on the corner of the bed. “We argued—and then Arthur asked if I hadn’t gotten _my_ head addled in the last day—if I wasn’t a bit ‘turned over’ from my new girl—and I called him a daft git and asked him when was the last time he’d ever seen me fancying a girl? And then Arthur said he knew that I—because of the kiss—but he hadn’t thought it was an all-encompassing thing. Then, he put two-and-two together and asked why Gwen had said I was with a girl—and I said it was because a boy showed up—but not for that reason—his face! What a perv. And that it was the same boy that died on the balustrade— demanding medical treatment for his sister—but that his coming to get me was a ploy, because Morgana showed up and poisoned me. Then there were more questions—but Arthur was upset—and I said think about this: ‘why did Morgana give you back Gwen so easily? Why didn’t she kill her?’ And Arthur got mad. Very very mad. Told me to leave.”

“I take it you had more to say.”

“I told him it was mandrake root—and that we might be able to save her if we gave her the potion in time.”

Mordred frowns, considering. “That doesn’t sound that bad.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Arthur said the last time he let someone convince him that a potion could save his family—his father died. And that was me—I used an aging spell and tried to save Uther—to spare Arthur pain—and there was an amulet—and—and—”

“And now Arthur is naturally suspicious about untested medicinals and he’s about to talk to Gwen, who is going to deny every word you said.”

“Do you think she’ll try and kill him?” Merlin’s eyes are pink with strain.

“She’s Morgana’s puppet—but not her plaything. She won’t attack Arthur if it’ll injure her reputation with the knights. No. I think she’s going to confer with Morgana—as soon as possible—and then Morgana is going to throw all of her cards on the table. I suspect that tonight she’ll tell Gwen that you’re a sorcerer, and that Gwen will publicly announce it.”

Merlin’s fingers knead the air before his open mouth. He looks like he’s going to throw up.

“They can’t hurt you, Merlin. You’re too strong. Once she announces, stand your ground. No one will believe her. Not at first. It will depend on Arthur.”

Merlin buries his hands in his palms. “And what if Arthur asks me, ‘Merlin, do you have magic?’ ‘Merlin, are you a sorcerer?’”

Mordred reaches out and cups Merlin’s cheek, brushing it softly with his thumb. “I can’t answer that for you. What would you want to say?”

“I would want to say...” Merlin leans into Mordred’s hand. “I want to say—that the first day I entered your service it was because I stopped a dagger from stabbing your chest. I want to say, ‘Arthur, to date, I have saved your life 102 times—and you have only saved mine 12—totally pathetic.” Merlin snorts, a fleeting smile crossing his face. “I want to say, ‘I’m sorry for hiding it from you all of these years, but your father would have killed me, and it would have killed you to have hid me from him.’ I want to say, ‘And I’m not just any measly sorcerer—I’m the biggest baddest wolf in the land—and I’ve been under your nose the whole time, and you couldn’t recognize me for who I was.’ I want to say, ‘you’re my best friend, the best king that any kingdom could ever have—and I love you for it.’ I want to say, ‘forgive me.’”

“Then say it,” Mordred says.

“I’m not sure I can.” Merlin’s voice is so small.

When he looks up at Mordred, defeat is already marked in the slump of his jaw.

“But you can. You can do this. You’re Emrys.”

Merlin grimaces. “That’s just a foretelling. An ancient name.”

“It’s you,” Mordred growls. And he’s angry. His magic has even sprung up. God, he’s not just frustrated, he’s furious. Because this isn’t right. To see the greatest mage of the age laid so low—

Mordred stands, walks right up to Merlin, pushes in between his knees. Merlin’s jaw is still dropped—eyes, cast down—when Mordred pulls up on his chin and kisses him.

There’s a still second where Mordred’s lips are pressing uncertainly into Merlin’s—in which Mordred tastes afternoon tea on his lips and the straw mattress creaks from the added weight—but then Merlin grabs him. His hands clutch hard on Mordred’s waist, and they're falling back onto the bed—and Mordred is surprised, nay, shocked by how much he wants this.

Merlin's mouth is eager, almost too eager to be pliable, but that's okay, because they both keep losing their breath from the panting. The kisses are more teeth than tongue but they make up with it with the rough scramble of their bodies. Merlin seems unable to let go of Mordred's arse, cupping it—pinching it. Mordred, meanwhile, has ended up on top—which is good—because he can lead. He can rip off his own tunic and Merlin's. Merlin's nipples are tiny frozen little beads, hard from chill in the air, so that Mordred has to lick at them. 

Merlin is hissing from the sensitivity but his hand is also fumbling between their hips. When he finds Mordred’s laces, he just starts pulling. He doesn't wait, and then Mordred has to stop because cold knuckles are pressing against the skin of his lower abdomen and then fingers are tracing him and up and down. His cock hangs loose in the air with only Merlin's hand to steady it.

"Can I?" Merlin asks, suddenly hesitant, like he's afraid he'll break Mordred if he really grips it.

"Just—" Mordred answers by working at the fastening on Merlin's breeches, and then they're both exposed and yet he wants them together—so he presses his forehead to Merlin's and thrusts his hips—and oh oh oh—and Merlin's face—Merlin's mouth is open, a soft gasp coming out when Mordred thrusts them both up into his hand.

The rhythm is mess—Merlin's hips refuse to stay still. And Mordred eventually gives up—even forgoes keeping a grip on them—and just grinds himself into Merlin—vaguely trying for mutual friction but mostly just shamelessly using Merlin to get off. 

Despite this, Merlin comes first. He's saying, "Oh, just—fuck—fuck—damn it, Mordred." And his eyes seem to roll back into his head except that they're gilded gold at the edges and with the way that the magic shakes the room—loops about their bodies—it's like the whole world is on the brink of being obliterated.

But no, then Merlin's hand are on his jaw and neck. Merlin's saying, "Look at me," and Mordred is looking but keeping any constant focus is hard when he's rubbing himself across Merlin's stomach—using his white slick as a lubricant—but Merlin is saying, "Don't hide," and Mordred is not hiding, just drowning in spirit and dust and his vision goes white for a second as he finally lets go.

When his eyes can focus again, Merlin is rolled over on his side, staring. He has a finger tracing the planes of Mordred's stomach. "I like the way your eyes look when your magic takes over. It makes them even finer than normal, and they're always fine."

"You think my magic is sexy." Mordred teases, too wiped to have a care in the world.

Merlin snorts. "And you just like my magic. Full stop."

"Not just your magic. You. Although, you aren't like other sorcerers. It's not like magic is a skill for you. No, you, Emrys, are magic."

"I'm just a man."

Stupid self-deprecating git. "And such a liar." It comes out cross but Mordred doesn't care.

“I—” Merlin starts to defend, but then he pauses, looking down. “Actually, I haven’t been honest about something.”

“About me?”

“About why I hated you when you first came.”

Mordred shrugs. “Because you didn’t trust me and thought I was going to curse everyone.”

“No—the reason was more specific. It was because of a foretelling. The seer Lochru gave me a vision on his death bed—one in which you’re wielding a sword on a battlefield. You kill Arthur.” 

Mordred can’t laugh this off. Born a druid, he knows of Lochru. The man’s words are not to be disregarded. Around the time of Mordred’s birth, he had predicted that Uther would send his brigades into their forests. Being non-violent—even if they were magic—the druids had not believed him. Yet they should have heeded his words. The druids should have left these lands. Mordred’s voice is careful when he says, “I like and admire Arthur. He does not have my hate.”

“And he would have been dead twice now if not for you.” Merlin laughs bitterly. “That’s when I finally changed my mind about you—when I realized that Arthur would have been dead if you hadn’t made me practice.”

“Even the clearest seeing seer only sees the most likely paths. They do not see all.”

“I know...” Merlin’s voice sounds as heavy as stone.

Mordred grabs his wrist. “No. This is our fate. The only way I end up on the opposite side of the battlefield as Arthur Pendragon is if—”

“So best for his sake if he doesn't burn me at the stake?” Merlin cuts in.

“No—because he can’t harm you. No one can if you truly wish to block them. Merlin—you could probably walk through flames if you practiced on it. No, the only way that I’m on the opposite side of the field as Arthur is if he never hears an honest voice proclaim that magic is good. That being a sorcerer doesn’t make you evil. It is not my fate that is bound up in Arthur’s. My fate is bound up in yours. It’s only if you refuse your magic—if you never say a word—if you crumble inward and Albion sickens with you—that’s the only way I end up on the opposite side of a field.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Not easy. Worth it.”

“And if Arthur rejects me—tosses me from Camelot—then just what shall we do?”

“We shall quest! There’s a beast on the southern coasts that has been wreaking havoc—I should like to slay it and give the townspeople rest. Also, it’s really not fair to send so many knights up against a creature of magic. Their swords are futile. No, you and I will be up to the job.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “And after that?”

“There will be another beast—another strange plague in the northern reaches. There will be children that need your healing hands. There might be minds that I can mend.”

“You make it sound like we’ll be heroes.”

“Better than that. _Legends_.”

Merlin grabs Mordred’s face. The kiss is sticky and hopeful, and oh just fuck, no matter how this plays out, they've doomed each other.

 

Later, when a messenger arrives, calling for Merlin (“The king requests your presence in the throne room.”), Mordred has him ready. _If things go south, throw up your physical wards—block any arrows or crossbow bolts. If you think you can handle it, stop time. And then run as fast as you can to the west field. It’s there I’ll be waiting. We’ll leave._

_I hope things don’t go south._ Merlin's voice sounds so small. 

_Either way, I’ll be waiting._

Mordred isn't going to the throne room with him. Merlin is afraid of him losing control of his magic and mind-blasting his fellow knights. Possibly hurting Arthur. And Mordred accepts Merlin’s argument, but he also fears it might be an excuse—that when the moment of truth strikes, Merlin will kneel rather than stand.

Either way, Mordred must leave tonight. If Merlin doesn't come... Mordred can’t stay with Merlin if it’s to live in a life of fear. So instead, he waits with two horses heavy with saddle bags. An hour passes. Then another. Mordred hears no clanging of alarm bells. And when he reaches out to search the surrounding area with his mind, there are no knights sneaking up on him.

At midnight, Mordred gets a leg in the saddle. Overhead the moon is bright and blind—like an eye with no iris. There is no way that Merlin is still arguing with Arthur in the throne room. All will be hashed out by now. And if Merlin were in danger, Mordred would have heard something. If he were dead, Mordred would have felt the scream. But no, there is nothing around him but night.

He clucks at the horses. They’re just about to crest the hill when a shout blasts the air.

"MORDRED!" 

Mordred wheels the horse around. There at the bottom of the cliff is Emrys.

It's not merely "Merlin." Mordred knows because of how he’s smiling. His eyes are crackling yellow, and when he raises his hands to the sky, it’s to send up magic like lightning bolts.

Mordred’s horse is bucking from fear, but he reins her in, before jumping off and running down the hill.

“What did—?”

“The Council is considering a proposal to allow certain kinds of magic in Camelot, but for now—” Merlin flies at Mordred, drawing him into his arms. “—we have a beast to kill. We have stop Morgana. I need to heal those at death’s door.”

“But we’re coming back?” Mordred asks.

“As legends.”


End file.
